


hush

by DrSchaf



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Dancing, Deaf Character, M/M, Masturbation, Nonverbal Communication, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 04:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19077511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: Connor swallows and pumps his hand and thinks about dancing while being fucking deaf.





	hush

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to my beta chainsawlicker who read multiple versions of this without complaining once even when I forgot to fix what I messed up the first time around. You're awesome!

A cold that went on for a bit too long. At worst the flu.

Connor hadn't been sick for ages, so a few days off work and his feet were nothing to get one's knickers in a twist about. Murphy made fun of him because of course he did, but he also brought him soup and blankets while generally being a lot fucking nicer than usual, so that was fine as well.

When the pain in his ears started, Murphy stopped laughing and brought painkillers.

His ears pulsed like a bitch, but it was just a _cold_ , nothing more.

When the fever wouldn't go down, Murphy's worried glances morphed into commands to go to the doctor that Connor had a hard time following; his hearing turned sketchy and his head felt like it was about to split in two.

Inflammation of the middle ear, they said in the hospital—written on a piece of paper and handed over by a man in white while Murphy paced back and forth in the background and gesticulated wildly.

Connor wasn't sorry to miss out on Murphy's tirade, but the infection left him with the gracious gift of permanent hearing damage and a huge debt to the hospital, and weeks later, he was still stuck trying to bargain with whoever would listen so he could hear Murphy rant again, even if it was just for a moment.

Nobody ever answered.

*

Meeting the regular crowd at McGinty's seems futile. The pleasant anticipation of going for a pint after a long day of work disappeared even though roaring laughter in a bar is so easy to recognize, he would have to be thick on top of deaf to miss the signs.

Like he did by not realizing that the cold wasn't a cold or that Hell is a place on earth where he can't hear his brother's laugh. Murphy's face always looked like a future to him - his own personal hope - and now his shame of being inadequate makes it hard to look at Murphy at all.

Murphy taps on his shoulder.

Over the morning paper, Connor blows smoke at Murphy who tries to will his thoughts into his brain by staring at him with a look of terrifying focus on his face.

When his efforts don't have the desired effect - they never do, but Murphy is set on his path without ever changing the outcome - Connor decides it can't be that important and goes back to reading his paper.

A wet towel lands on his forehead and slowly sinks down on the table while Murphy presents something that resembles a modern free dance. He looks like he's dancing his fucking name.

Maybe he does. Regularly.

Pretending to know nothing about any topic ever, Connor takes a drag from his smoke and stomps down on the smug smile trying to break through. Any second now, it will come, the only power he has left in this fucking silent household.

The thing that levels them somehow, on a primal basis.

Murphy stops his wild movements. For a moment, he stands with his face blotchy and gnaws on his lip, then he steps closer. When he finally touches Connor's shoulder again, he looks apologetic about it, and Connor's heart sings in justice while Murphy pulls at his arm to guide him to whatever the fuck he deems important.

He doesn't care. What he cares about is making Murphy's life more difficult by pretending to be oblivious about mundane household tasks, and while that thought is insane in itself, it does help against the sinking feeling of depression that tries to take over his mind. Making it so they both have to struggle in this new situation—it helps.

On the other hand, Murphy isn't stupid. Somewhere deep down, his brother has to know what he's doing.

'Connor,' Murphy mouths. Without tone, he looks like he's gasping, craving air like a fish. A frowning, dying fish. _Connor._

Connor follows his line of sight to the gargantuan laundry pile that made its home beside his bed. He wants to say he has nothing to say to that, but he can't, so he simply shrugs to convey the thought.

As expected, Murphy's answer consists of shoving him face-first into the mess and slapping him with the leg of a random pair of jeans. He's laughing, holding his heart in a tight grip.

Connor reaches out, but instead of touching Murphy's smile like he wants to, his fingers find their way to Murphy's ears.

 _Connor_ , Murphy says. He doesn't mouth it, he just states it out loud, and that's okay - his voice would've been quiet anyway, barely on the edge of Connor's hearing range. Now he can pretend it's a whisper that's only meant for him, both now and before, and that the glaring difference isn't as obvious.

Something is lodged in his throat, a nothing formed of his absent voice covering the space between his vocal cords until they're ready to burst from the pressure.

Connor closes his eyes, covers Murphy's ears, and stays in place until the nothing crawls back to where it came from. When he steps back, he refrains from trying to make sense of the question on Murphy's face and sets out to sort through the laundry.

*

Murphy develops the habit of steering him through crowded spaces.

At McGinty's, he keeps his fingers on Connor's elbow when they make their way to the bar. At one of Rocco's house parties that turns into a wild affair of rigged card games and drunken dancing, Murphy goes as far as to point towards the bathroom when Connor heads out to take a piss. He wonders what his face looks like that Murphy might recognize his need to empty his _bladder_ without him raising a literal word about it, but such thoughts are better left alone.

Murphy knows, is all.

And he fights to take over the shopping duties.

There's shouting involved, he guesses, but he can't be sure, and then he punches Murphy on the nose and they settle on the couch to watch the only thing they're able to that isn't porn; movies with subtitles about topics that neither of them cares about.

Afterward, Connor goes to the fucking mall and pretends he isn't pleased to see Murphy's relieved face when he returns, in fact, unharmed.

The guiding hand on his arm becomes a reliability Connor gets used to so quickly, he barely has time to admit that he likes it before he decides to ruin it lest his true feelings on the matter become obvious.

At night after a long shift, Murphy walks close enough their shoulders brush with every step, and they almost come to blows on the sidewalk by the biggest intersection Connor can find. He mentally threatens to push Murphy into traffic if he ever so much as thinks about touching his shoulder again, and then _Murphy_ pushes him and he pushes right back, and then he ends up with his chin banging against a lamp post and someone honks at them - according to Murphy flipping the bird at a passing car.

They walk the rest of the way with their shoulders brushing.

At home, they share the remaining ice cubes for their various bruises, and when Murphy rudely shoves him towards the stove, Connor is so relieved he almost fucking cries.

It's stupid, but Murphy allowing him to do something that requires no hearing like none of the other things do either—it feels like winning.

And like losing, if only Murphy's attention.

But mostly, it feels like winning.

*

In the chilly hours of the morning just before the sun rises, the silence makes him reckless.

Somewhere buried in the furiously muddled parts of his mind, he knows he might wake his brother. Contrary to popular belief - Rocco's - losing sound didn't make him simpleminded; it made him deaf, that's what it did.

And hopeful that he might be too loud after all.

By accident, he found out that when he closes his eyes, he's no longer inhabiting a body. He morphs into a _thing_ , a being that exists on touch alone.

With the tips of his fingers, he feels ragged edges and valleys, the rush of air leaving his lungs, the vibrations in his chest when it catches on a groan he will never hear again. He feels wetness, cool on his lips when he licks them and hot where he wraps his fist around what's so familiar and foreign at the same time.

If he opened his eyes, the illusion would shatter and yank him back into the unexcited boredom of an act done a thousand times. So he doesn't. He goes on, rubbing over the threadbare cotton of the sheets with his free hand, higher, over his ribs until his fingers reach his throat.

When he groans, a tremor shakes his Adam's apple, a distant memory of tone. An echo only, but exciting enough he dares to kick the covers down another inch or two. The edge slides over his belly and stops just shy of too far down. With every pump of his hand, the cool morning air rushes over his cock while his knuckles drag against the fabric.

The idea alone of Murphy being awake to witness what he's doing makes him sick and forces his head back and his knees to bend upwards and then it's too late.

Connor lets go.

The evidence splatters over his chest, less disgusting than he remembers now that he's tracking its progress so minutely, and he's almost sorry to stop when he gets too oversensitive to continue.

Giving into a content sigh, he tries to get both his breathing and the faint hope of being watched under control. His eyes stay closed, increasing the prickling and tickling all over his body.

The sweat drying.

The eyes on him, raising goosebumps like a physical touch.

Connor looks up.

Murphy sits on the other bed, in his bathrobe, eyes averted in his flustered face. He is observing his knees, from the look of it, and the room is bright now.

There's barely enough of him hidden, but even if Murphy were exceptionally stupid (he isn't), the drying come on his chest is a rather obvious sign of what he did.

Murphy gets up and stalks towards the stove without sparing him another glance.

He says nothing, Connor is sure.

He could have, or at least thrown a pillow. But he didn't.

*

Murphy is not angry with him. He isn't stooping down to his level either.

By now, Murphy should've closed the gap between them and come to his side, dragged into his personal Hell to cower next to him, beaten into shape by a misery powerful enough to shrink their world down to the unimaginable.

Instead, he's dancing. They both are.

Murphy giggles, stupidly waving his arms, and just like that, Connor lets himself be swayed from his loneliness. He remembers 'Lady in Black' well enough to hear it in his head, so that's what he dances to.

They move, palms brushing. He hasn't felt this free since he stepped foot on solid ground after weeks spent cramped on a moldering ship, the possibilities as endless as the skyscrapers before him. There is no plan here, just a vague rhythm and memories and Murphy's laugh, and he didn't think it could be this good again.

Connor turns in a circle, spinning Murphy with him because he can and because Murphy allows it. On the edge of his vision, missing light from beside the couch catches his eye; the stereo on the small table sits unbothered, its cable hanging loosely to the floor.

It's not plugged in, and Murphy, his brother with two healthy ears and the ability to create a home wherever he goes, doesn't know about his personal Hell at all. He doesn't know how hard it is to keep from reaching out and touching more than his palms, or how he longs to hear his stupid laugh so he can swallow it whole.

Instead, Murphy simply dances.

*

The next time he's reckless, he gets so jittery with the idea of testing his theory that Murphy may have watched him the first time around, he imagines hearing his own heart racing in his chest.

In fact, he can't, but it hammers fast enough it wouldn't surprise him if Murphy was the one who could hear it.

Before he closed his eyes and set out to become a being, Murphy lay turned away from him in a boneless puddle of deep sleep. The world is gray and cold, and the sun won't be up for a while yet.

He won't get a better opportunity and there's no use in waiting any longer either. Thinking about doing it again set is blood on fire for days. It has to be now.

Swallowing three times in a row gives him enough courage to very accidentally stretch out his legs and push the covers down with them. Further than the last time. Like he planned. Good.

Connor swallows again, for good measure, and gets to work

This morning - his nerves - calls for a quick session rather than a drawn-out one, and he's panting within minutes. Every time he pumps his hand, his knuckles drag the sheet down just a little further, and he's so obsessed with figuring out how much of him is visible, he doesn't have the energy to work on a groan to make sure Murphy wakes so he can test his fucking theory.

It's a mess.

He doesn't dare to look.

Because he doesn't dare to look, he doesn't know when to stop or how long he's been going at it or how he looks or if Murphy woke up by now or _anything at all_.

Dancing. That's what he should've tried: cajoling Murphy into dancing with him and making his move from there. However that might've looked.

Maybe he could've taken those palms once they brushed against his own again and simply held onto them. Watching Murphy's eyes for clues. Or his cheeks and the color in them. They look different now, sometimes. Red when before they weren't, and mostly unrelated to anything he can put his finger on.

Connor swallows and pumps his hand and thinks about dancing while being fucking deaf. It's a compulsive habit for sure. Can't be healthy.

As unhealthy as wanking with his nerves all over the place and the imaginary smell of coffee in his nose.

Connor takes a huge breath, consciously feels for the location of the blanket - just below his hand, leaving almost all of him to be seen - and finishes what he started.

It doesn't feel as light and carefree as the last time, and it doesn't count as being 'reckless' either. He's too preoccupied for that, and it was a plan instead of an accident (the first time wasn't either), and he'll have to check the result now.

Now.

Now.

Connor opens his eyes and finds Murphy's bed empty. To look through the flat, he has to look past his own body, and then all of it is in his line of sight at once: his fist still curled around his shrinking cock, the grossness of his come sliding down his side, and Murphy standing by the fridge with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand while nodding in a way that could mean 'good morning'.

Connor nods back.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the thing he likes to blame for his sudden affliction screeches in victory. In the front of his mind, he keeps his gaze locked with Murphy's while his breath slows down and his brother blows on his coffee.

For a bit - maybe a minute or two - they stay in position, then Murphy turns away to reach for a smoke and Connor gets up to take a shower.

On their way to work, Murphy crowds into him even though the bus isn't full enough to justify pressing his entire side against him, and when they get off, he steers him through the crowd with two fingers around his wrist. The one he moved earlier. While Murphy was awake.

Faintly, Connor guesses that now that he got his results, it's time to come up with a conclusion.

*

“Fucking look at that,” Connor says.

Nothing comes and nothing came, and then he remembers and his grin withers away. The guy in question disappears into a bookshop, but he wasn't important anyway. Catching himself too late because the man sported the wildest mullet mankind ever graced the earth with, that's important. And his lack of courage to look up and find out whether Murphy noticed his slip - that's something else entirely.

He wants to say, 'I miss hearing your heartbeat' even though he never fucking did, and sometimes, 'I remember how your face looked when we were on that ship, Murph' or even 'When I lay awake at night, I think about it sometimes.'

It's ridiculous. Absurd. Fucking insane even, if he thinks about it. Which he won't do.

Hearing has nothing to do with any of this and he needs to make Murphy feel it, that was the plan, to pull him down with him so they'd be fucking miserable together. Their world growing even smaller than before, ever shrinking until there's nothing left but them.

Fuck.

Murphy's fingers close around his wrist. He's pulling him down the street, and Connor can't remember if they grabbed a set of keys before they left the house. They must have, and he doesn't understand why he's thinking about it while Murphy pulls him along with no strength or force. He leads, is all, and Connor follows because he's deaf and he's too much of a coward to figure any of it out, least of all results and conclusions, and _very_ least of all their consequences.

They stop at a general store.

Murphy buys paper and a pen and marches them home. When they get back, he unlocks the door, just like that. Then he takes the pen and points at Connor's head and writes 'Shut up', and everything is all right again.

*

Somewhere along the way, Murphy stopped dancing.

They rarely ever did, but Connor still finds himself with an acute fit of longing for the harmless deed. Dancing, what the fuck. He can't do it well, Murphy even less so, and he shouldn't bother his brother with asking for something he'd only do for his sake anyway.

Murphy does enough already, including watching him take care of his many, many needs while staying silent all the while. And he's evolving; no more talking at the air and frowning around when there's no answer. He catches himself more often, stops to lead him through situations he deems dangerous, taps his shoulder for attention instead of rounding him to search for his eyes.

He so misses Murphy's steering, the touch that came with it, the guidance he never needed.

And the fucking dancing.

Murphy manifests in front of the couch with his face pulled into three directions at once, each of them looking distinctly uncomfortable. And disturbing. Murphy clenches his jaw and waves the paper in his hand, going as far as to point at it as if he believes him to be demented.

Connor droops his eyelids to complete the picture and barely keeps his sigh in as Murphy underlines the words in several thick, aggressive strokes. 'Shut up', they say, but the look of importance on Murphy's face makes it seem like he composed a bloody manifesto.

Despite their closeness, Murphy can't know what he's thinking.

It's a relief. For obvious reasons.

It's a shame because wouldn't that be the thing, having a direct line to the only person he couldn't be without?

_Quit it._

The shape of the movement isn't exact, but he's had practice at watching Murphy's lips move all his life, and he knows his words. If he concentrates hard enough, he still hears the sound of them, though he guesses he will lose the memory soon enough. Time will steal everything, even thoughts as precious as this, until he remembers nothing but the nothing.

_Fucking quit it, Connor. I mean it._

Connor squares his shoulders and looks Murphy in the eye.

The day before, Murphy wrote, 'I'm quieter now because I hear you', and he still isn't sure what Murphy meant by it. He was afraid to ask just as he is to tell him how he wants to take his fucking hand and never let go. Or to dance. Without clothes. To do anything without clothes.

Instead, he took a shower that went on for long enough the water ran cold while Murphy sat on the couch and watched him.

His body or his thoughts.

 _Shut up_ , Murphy says above him.

They're so close, the words wash over his face in a wave of old smoke and red cheeks. He yearns for Murphy to finally stoop down to his level, but his brother isn't ready to admit it yet. The watching and not saying anything about it and the touching and all the rest, so much of it Connor's throat vibrates under the weight and pressure and fucking longing.

To make them right again, he has to make Murphy angry enough that he gets it.

Murphy's hand is mid-flight on its way to the pen as Connor catches it in a firm grip. They freeze like they never do until Connor presses it against his throat, where the vibrations come from. His lips are sealed shut, but there's still a tone. It comes out of his chest, he thinks. Something he's glad he doesn't have to hear himself.

It sounds pathetic for sure.

When Connor gets up from the couch, Murphy doesn't move more than his eyes to track his progress.

When Connor pulls his shirt over his head, their look turns chaotic.

 _Connor_.

He should either get the hint now or become angry. They could fight it out like they always did.

_Connor, tell me._

Connor swallows, cold with his naked chest and the heating turned off. The wild look in Murphy's eyes hasn't changed and he hasn't stepped back either; he's waiting with an expression that could mean he has no idea what for.

Fucking watched him wanking and now he's pretending to oblivious.

Connor squares his jaw and places Murphy's hand back on his throat, then he swallows to let Murphy know about the nothing that lives there when he's toneless and not pathetic. It's a fickle thing, but if Murphy wanted to, he could break the game and out-con the nothing by feeling it.

_Talk, aye? I'll hear you._

Apparently, Murphy doesn't want to find it. Or he didn't watch him after all and he got it wrong, the whole of it.

But he's fucking _blushing_.

Connor drops their hands, opens his belt, and shoves his pants down. He throws overboard his reservations about his brother finding out he's able to read his lips and observes Murphy's mouth for miniature movements.

Nothing comes.

Connor steps out of his pants and peels off his socks, watching Murphy's mouth while Murphy watches him back, with that blush and his eyes and no movement.

_Say something or I'll fucking punch you._

He lays Murphy's hand back on his throat and spreads their fingers so they splay out, following the curve of his neck. There's no tone here, his brother should be aware of that. There's no fucking talking. He can't hear himself and Murphy has forgotten this fact.

_Do you understand me?_

Connor nods.

_Say it. Fucking tell me._

Maybe Murphy misses the sound of his voice as much as he does his. He can't prove the theory, but the thought warms him nonetheless and chases away the dread lurking in his chest from Murphy refusing to admit to anything.

The days when they could simply shout at each other were fucking easier.

To force the issue, Connor squeezes their hands tight enough breathing through the constriction gets almost impossible, and then he wins so fast the sudden action sends him reeling—Murphy's hand disappears and his boxers are ripped from him at the same time, cutting into his thighs. Murphy yells; he feels it in the air even when he's looking down, then Murphy grips his shoulder and shakes him.

Connor jerks himself loose and shoves him back.

They grapple while Murphy hollers in his face. It's the most absurd thing he can imagine, fucking squabbling with his brother while his cock flaps listlessly about and his foot is still stuck in the remains of his boxers. Murphy's eyes are huge, and there's that new blush on his cheeks Connor isn't familiar with yet, and still they're fighting.

He wants to fucking cry.

 _What are you fucking doing?_ Murphy cries. _This is insane!_

Panting, Connor glances at his soft cock and swallows.

Murphy bends to catch his eyes. _Connor. Connor, stop fighting me. What are you doing?_ He reaches out again, but instead of starting another round of shoving, Murphy dabs at his cheeks as if he believes he started to cry somewhere between taking off his clothes and getting hollered at.

Hopefully, he didn't, though Murphy seems less in the mood to fight and somewhat more pacified once his fingers touch Connor's face.

_You're so fucking quiet even now._

The repetition makes as much sense as the first time: none at all.

 _Say something, aye? Just one word. I know you can._ Murphy steers him backward by crowding into his space. _I know you do. I hear you sometimes. Not only when you...you know._ Murphy licks his lips.

His throat vibrates. Connor fears he obeyed without meaning to, but Murphy's face turns an even darker shade of red and his mouth falls open, and he guesses it was a moan instead.

 _That'll do._ Murphy nods, rapid, and they tumble onto the nearest bed.

It's Murphy's.

He doesn't know why it's important, but somehow it is.

Connor breathes out with a rush and melts as soon as Murphy dries the imaginary tears on his cheeks. When Murphy is done, his hand hurries over his chest, and Connor thinks he should go slow instead, but his muscles flutter under the rough palm he's touched so many times in his life and he's in no position to raise any complaints, especially when it drags over his stomach.

Within a minute, Connor lies boneless and soft everywhere except for where he's stirring fast. Murphy knew that would happen. Of course.

Hopefully, that was the goal.

He cranes his head to read Murphy's face when his urge to communicate overrules his urge to experience this important thing as a body only. He needs his eyes to hear, that's all, but Murphy's hand leaves at the barest hint of struggle and makes room for Murphy's face over his. There's a faint sheen of sweat above his lips, and he's still fucking dressed.

Connor spreads his fingers over the pale white of Murphy's throat while his own closes up with something horrible.

_Isn't that what- Connor. I thought this is what you meant. I wouldn't-_

Connor surges up, and suddenly they're kissing instead of communicating. Or it's a form of it. One tastes different than the other, much better and darker and more exciting, and Murphy's hand comes back too; it grips his own and pulls his palm flat on Murphy's chest.

Underneath, something moves. A weird wave, a—rumbling.

This is it now, this is it.

Connor taps against Murphy's chest, and the shirt disappears into the great unknown of the untidy flat. Right after, he presses his hand back against Murphy's throat and feels for the small vibrations Murphy produces when he shoves close enough to rub his cock over Murphy's thigh. The rough denim hurts a bit, but Murphy's throat - that's more important.

He won't ever hear what comes out of there just for him. From kissing him.

_I hear you._

He wishes to fucking God his brother would stop saying that.

Murphy gives his thigh an inappropriate squeeze. _You mumble all the time. And those mornings, you put on a show for me, right?_ His face looks like it's burning. _And I always watched, Con. Because you wanted to show me, no? And you were so fucking quiet even then. And when you talk by accident, I've got to hold my breath to hear you_. _But_ _I hear you, Connor. I hear you._

Connor says, “I won't ever hear how ye sound for me.”

Murphy's face does something strange; his eyes grow wide as if he lied and this is indeed the first time he hears him speak, and his mouth hangs open and closes again before his lips pull into a smile. A grin. He's laughing, the arsehole, and then he stops again. _Sorry._ He swallows under Connor's fingers. _You ever heard me before when I... Did you ever listen?_

There's no good answer to that, not while he's naked with his brother's hand wrapped loosely around his hip and the nothing in him trying to leave forever.

It shouldn't. In case he chooses the wrong answer.

Before he can decide, Murphy rolls on his back and pulls him with him. While Connor's hand goes back to his throat, Murphy arranges their limbs so Connor straddles him and his cock rubs against the soft skin of Murphy's belly.

Thrusting against the coarse hair alone makes him shudder with lust and love and wrong. It's so much, he knows he could lose himself in this.

Murphy seems to have other ideas—he cranes his head to catch his eyes. _Did_ _you ever listen when I did that?_

“I did,” Connor says. He looks away to miss the answer, so easy now, and waits for the chaos, but Murphy settles his doubts by gripping him tighter despite the fighting and confessions.

They both fumble for Murphy's pants at the same time. Connor wins and struggles them over Murphy's thighs just to get more time to see how he looks for him already, almost fully hard just from—from what, fighting and having a one-sided discussion and maybe from loving him back.

Connor climbs back on and rolls his hips, ready to search for the answer he'll only find in his face, but not seeing how Murphy's cock twitches against his own makes _feeling_ it so intense he has to fucking watch or he'll die.

Fucking Christ, he can feel it all the way down in his toes.

Hail Mary.

Murphy squeezes his thighs until Connor looks up. _Listen. Fuck. Connor, look at me now._

He does.

_You already know. You already know what I sound like for you. I always... I don't think about anyone else._

Connor moves, falling forward to cage him in, building a rhythm. The nothing can go. He doesn't want it anymore. “I wanna dance with ye.”

_What, now?_

The positive thing about not being able to hear is that when he sees fit, he can extract himself from a conversation with no effort - which he does now. With his eyes closed and Murphy moving underneath him, he feels him moaning against his fingers and hears him in his mind where he remembers. He lost his voice but gained something far more important. The trade is worth it just to see Murphy's eyes shine for him and those cheeks taking on a shade he never knew.

He'd never say it out loud even if he could. Murphy wouldn't approve.

It'll be his secret, but that's all right.

As long as they have this, Murphy doesn't need to know.


End file.
